


If it Comes Back, it Was, and Always Will Be, Yours

by candyvan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/F, Miscommunication, Past Relationship(s), Post Season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 09:07:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2223384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candyvan/pseuds/candyvan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Braeden feels her walls unwillingly fall down at the look Marin is giving her, so familiar and soft.</p><p>In this moment, she regrets ever leaving Beacon Hills, regrets ever coming back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If it Comes Back, it Was, and Always Will Be, Yours

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after season 4 ends, when everything has been cleaned up in Beacon Hills for a few more weeks, at least. As much as I love them, we're going to ignore how cute Braeden&Derek are for entirety this fic.
> 
> And thank you so much to [pocketmumbles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/livelikejack/pseuds/pocketmumbles) for being an amazing person and beta-ing this for me!

The veterinary clinic resides innocently enough between an old book-store and an antique shop. Braeden's been here before, spent her youth wandering in and out of the building with no animal at her side. She remembers the first time she came here, bleeding, on the verge of death, and desperately looking for a familiar face. She remembers the gentle, soothing voice that brought her back from the brink.

Braeden blinks to clear the memory and breathes out, collecting herself, before opening the car door.

That wasn't the first time she called upon a druid for help, and it wasn't the last either. It was usually the other way around, her name spreading by word of mouth and her phone almost off the hook with emissaries desperate to maintain balance. Among the West Coast, she's so well known that it's rare to come into contact with an emissary who hasn't at least heard of her.

She's not only the best at what she does, she's _human_.

The doors shouldn't look as daunting as they do, but Braeden needs to mentally prepare herself before opening them. It's been years since she's been in Beacon Hills, and the month she's been here has been too busy to even have room to breathe. She didn't have much reason to come to the sleepy town after the Hale fire, but the past year has been filled with more supernatural activity than in the last seventy years combined.

Braeden used to get fifty contracts a week to do away with the pack, but she'd always refuse. It was rare for Braeden to turn down an offer, even more rare for her to mix emotions with business, but there was something about the sparkle of Talia's eyes and the upturn in Alan's voice when he was being especially cryptic.

There was something about Marin's smile, as rare and infrequent as it was.

Alan's waiting for her inside the clinic, not even pretending to be busy. He stands in the middle of the room, eyes directly on the door and a pinched, judgmental look on his face.

They stare at each other, seconds ticking on as neither is willing to break a silence that's gone on for years.

She doesn't feel threatened under his gaze, but she wants to be. She wants an excuse to lash out at him, if only to get him to stop staring at her with that look, as if he wants to offer her a cup of tea and give her confusing advice.

Braeden doesn't need his comfort. She forces herself to relax, rolls her shoulders and changes her posture from threatening to comfortable. It's easy; she's used to putting on an act and playing a part.

After a few beats of silence, Alan finally caves, “It's good to see you, Braeden.”

“You too,” Braeden says, and is surprised that she means it. “The Beacon Hills medical staff just doesn't have your light touch.”

“Is that why those are there?” He asks lightly, gesturing to her neck.

Braeden shakes her head, allowing her hair to fan out about her face. She stares at him, unblinking as his eyes narrow on her throat. The claw marks are long and jagged, overtaking the side of her face and most of her throat, and Braeden loves them.

She fell in love instantly, as soon as she realized they weren't going to be the cause of her death. They make her look dangerous, in a way, and speak to her reputation. Human, but unkillable. Human, but not weak. Braeden takes comfort in them, in the fact that she's survived what so many would have fallen under.

“Those,” she says, voice hard, “Have more to do with your sister. Where is she, Alan?”

He raises an eyebrow, as if mocking her.

\- - -

_Marin laughs against her shoulder, and Braeden lets it wash over her, sinking into her bones and relaxing her muscles. She brushes a piece of Marin's hair back, the natural locks soft and teasing against her fingers, hand catching on her cheekbone and cupping her face._

_She leans up, and the kiss is soft, sweet like honey. It fills her, warmth rushing through her body, and Braeden wonders if she will ever be as happy as she is in this moment._

\- - -

Braeden first met Marin when she was sixteen, bleeding sluggishly and fighting to keep her leg from gaping open.

She was apprenticing with a powerful druid in Washington when they stumbled upon Braeden's body, left alone to die in the woods after she came across a ghoul desecrating her mother's burial sight. The old man wanted to leave her for dead, called it the natural order of things, but Marin crouched down beside her anyway, grabbed her hand tight, and demanded, “It's not her time yet.”

Marin was nineteen then, still young and passionate, still hopeful. There was a light in her eyes then that Braeden's watched dim over the years.

Looking at her now, Braeden wonders whatever happened to the girl she met ten years ago.

She stands straighter now, walks with a preternatural grace. Her face is a mask, blank, expressionless, and Braeden wants nothing more than to rip it off of her and see the fire in her eyes.

Braeden watches from the hallway, the rectangular window in the door showing glimpses of Marin as she walks up and down the row of desks, mouth moving slowly, drawing out words so her students can learn them.

She's content to relax there, back against the lockers, just watching Marin in her natural habitat, until the bell rings. She finds herself smiling as the door opens and she hears Marin call out to the hoard of rushing students about their homework assignment.

Breaden's quick to catch the door before it closes, heart calm but nerves roaring, as she steps into the classroom.

\- - -

_She steals kisses under the covers, skin warm and slick, her wandering hands always wanting but never finding enough. Sometimes her heart feels too big for her body, like it wants to burst through her rib cage just to be closer to Marin's._

_Braeden's faced down alpha werewolves without blinking, but somehow, this one girl can bring her to her knees just by existing._

“ _You'll be the death of me,” Braeden whispers against Marin's thigh, lips dragging across the soft skin._

_And when Marin grips her by the chin and pulls her up, bodies sliding and goosebumps rising, her kiss tastes like a promise and an apology, and Braeden falls into it willingly, lets her eyes close and her heart pound, the heat of it licking at her soul._

_Marin pulls back and rests her forehead against Braeden's, making sure their eyes meet as she breathes, “Never,” into the safe space between them._

\- - -

Marin doesn't look up when she enters the room. She's occupied, stacking papers on her desk with a concentrated look on her face, and it makes Braeden wonder if she's being purposely ignored.

Braeden takes the time to stare at Marin, eyes flittering over every detail to see what's changed between the girl from her memories and the woman in front of her.

It's been five years since Braeden last laid eyes on her, five long years since she felt her touch. Standing in front of her now, Braeden wonders how she even lasted a day.

“Are you going to say anything?” Marin asks, voice blank but with a subtle note of curiosity.

Braeden's mouth dries at the words, and it's so unlike her that it just makes her angry. This was stupid, she tells herself. She could have just gone to Alan, ask him his opinion, but instead, she had to feel _nostalgic_.

“Deucalion is still alive,” she says, filling her voice with that cocky edge she uses with her clients. “He contracted me to free Derek and Peter Hale from the Calaveras a month ago.”

Marin turns around at that, a quick look on her face as if she's astonished, as if she's surprised that Braeden is really going to pretend, before her face slips back into something more neutral.

“I like to follow up on my clients,” Braeden lies, “So, do you want me to kill Deucalion?”

“If I wanted him dead,” Marin says like most people would scoff, “I would kill him myself. I _never_ wanted to be an emissary and he forced me into that role. I would have his heart on a platter if I could, but balance dictates that neither you nor myself can take his life.” Marin meets her eyes, for the first time since Braeden entered the room, “It has to be Scott McCall.”

Braeden remembers how hard Marin's voice was when she called her and asked her to rescue Isaac, remembers the lazy afternoon nine years ago when Marin explained the difference between druids and emissaries, remembers how she looked down upon her brother for offering himself up to a wolf pack.

“Scott values life too much,” Braeden says, thinking of the hopeful boy she saw in Derek's loft only hours ago, “Does _balance_ know that?”

Braeden can't imagine what Deucalion had to have done to force Marin to be his emissary, not when Marin despised the idea of being one so much. The thoughts run through her mind, one horrific scenario after another, and she pictures shooting him full of wolfsbane bullets with pleasure.

“Scott is a seventeen year old boy. He has time to grow and understand, and he has Alan to guide him.” Marin tells her. She leans back against her desk, crosses one leg over the over as she tilts her head at Braeden, “Now, are you going to tell me why you're really here?”

Braeden feels her walls unwillingly fall down at the look Marin is giving her, so familiar and soft. She remembers hot summer afternoons, laying on the beach and listening to the waves roll while they kissed under the sun, and cold winter nights, cuddling in bed as they watched the snow fall, wondering if they'd be snowed in, wanting any excuse to be wrapped up in each other forever. In this moment, she regrets ever leaving Beacon Hills, regrets ever coming back.

“You know why,” Braeden says. The words are harsh, coming out confrontational and aggressive.

The years apart have made them both hard, and Braeden wishes for nothing more than when they were young, soft and open without even thinking about it. She misses when she could look at Marin and read her like a book, when Marin could do the same to her.

Marin blinks at her, brown eyes wide like a doe, “I'm afraid I don't. Alan tells me you've been contracted by the Hales to find Kate Argent, but that doesn't explain why you're _here_.”

Braeden pretends to ignore how Marin has just admitted to keeping tabs on her. She shrugs and steps father into the room, demanding, “What do you _want_ me to say, Marin?”

Marin scoffs, loud in the quiet of the room, and Braeden watches as her long neck arches with the noise.

\- - -

_It's slow, tortuous. Her tongue trails up the column of her throat, nipping and kissing the skin, caressing it, as if she isn't sure if she wants to mark it or worship it. Braeden's nose runs up Marin's neck, lips trailing behind it._

_She kisses right below her jaw, whispers into her ear, “I want you.”_

_She burns with it._

\- - -

“Five years ago I would have known how to answer that,” Marin says, and it's only through knowing her so intimately that Braeden is able to hear the trace of bitterness.

Braeden narrows her eyes, “You _told_ me to leave. You don't get to blame me for that.”

Marin raises both of her eyebrows at her, shakes her head as if she's disappointed, “You wanted to go. Forgive me for not holding you back.”

“ _Being with you_ wouldn't have held me back,” Braeden argues, voice laced with venom, suddenly far more angry than she was seconds ago. She crosses her arms over her chest, on the defensive.

Marin mirrors her stance, moving to stand. They're still at the same height and their eyes drill holes into the other as Marin steps closer. Her careful mask of neutrality is slipping, and beneath it Braeden can see it, the hurt and rage, and she wants to poke at it, needle until Marin just stops _pretending_.

“I saw it, you know,” she says, as if she's speaking to a child, “Every time your phone would ring? Your eyes would light up, but then you'd look over at me, and I couldn't do that to you anymore.”

“So, what?” Braeden demands, “You decided to make the choice for me? You kicked me out for my own good?”

Marin moves to deny it, but she hesitates a second too long, and Braeden laughs, a sharp, bitter sound of disbelief.

“You druids. You just- You think you know everything!” It would be funny if she didn't feel like she was being ripped in half all over again. “You think that because you “maintain balance” it gives you some excuse to pretend you're psychics.” Braeden steps closer to Marin, not even half a foot away, “Be honest. _For once._ I love you, and you threw us away over some _bullshit_ reason.”

It happens slowly, so careful that Braeden could stop it if she wants. She could back off and run, but she stays, lets Marin wrap an arm around her waist and tug her the remaining distance, lets her hands fall to Marin's hips.

She doesn't jerk away from the lips pressing against hers.

Kissing Marin has always been an experience. It drowns out everything, fries her brain and short circuits her memory, leaving her with nothing but Marin's lips, her tongue, her fingers digging into Braeden's skin. It doesn't feel like it's been five years. It feels like they never stopped kissing, like this is a song they never stopped dancing to.

It's like Braeden left a part of herself behind with Marin, let her keep it to remember her by, and now that she has it back, everything feels so full. Her heart beats, as if it's expanded at least three times its normal size, pushing at her, tugging her closer to Marin's own. She wants to _feel_ her, wants their heart beats to become one.

It's a familiar slide, bodies coming together like two puzzle pieces, fitting perfectly. Braeden grasps her tighter, feeling as if she'll melt without Marin to hold her together.

Marin pulls back and her hands move, cupping Braeden's jaw like she's something fragile. Their breath intermingles as they suck in air, trying to refill their lungs. Marin's fingers absently trace the silky feel of her scars, following the path down her throat and to her chest.

She rests her palm there, feeling Braeden's ribcage expand.

“I'm sorry,” she whispers, voice cracking around the words.

Braeden grips the hand on her chest and moves it, making Marin's palm cover her heart, letting her feel her heart beat.

“I don't want to leave,” Braeden says. “I never did.”

Marin presses a gentle kiss to the corner of her mouth, to her cheek, to her forehead. She runs a hand over Braeden's head, moving to cup the back of her neck. She drags her forward, bringing their bodies flush, and when she says, “I love you,” it sounds like a promise.

 


End file.
